


the rabbit boys

by redstorms



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Arthurian mythology - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Sanctum (The 100), The Raven Cycle AU, True Love's Kiss, bellamy the scholar, clarke the daughter of psychics, clarke's relationship with her dad explored more than with her mom, murphy and wells as brothers, welsh legends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:41:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25702243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redstorms/pseuds/redstorms
Summary: His clothing is soaked from a storm that hasn’t happened yet; the early spring air is still crisp and cool. He looks so real. Looking at him is like looking into the grave and seeing it look back at her. “Is that all?” she asks, keeping her voice close to her chest.Bellamy closes his eyes. “That’s all there is.” He falls to his knees, a surprisingly soundful gesture for a boy with no real body. One hand splayed in the dirt, fingers pressed to the ground.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Clarke Griffin/Raven Reyes, John Murphy/Raven Reyes
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. st. mark's eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve tagged the canon pairings as mirrored in the book The Raven Boys, but I am not making any promises.
> 
> spoilers for the whole Raven Cycle series and also spoilers for t100. hopefully, like circus of carrion, this blends both worlds seamlessly into one. if you’re a fan of both, I hope you will be able to enjoy this, but regular t100 fans should also enjoy it.

Some memories are like keepsakes; you take them out again, turn them over and over again in your mind, and their edges become rough, worn. What was once painful is no longer; what was once delightful has lost its brightness. But you keep looking at them.

Here is the memory that Clarke Griffin keeps looking at: she has grown up with psychics for parents, and while most fortune-telling is nonspecific, vague, they have always been sure of one thing. The one thing both her parents have always agreed on is this: If Clarke were to kiss her true love, he would die.

Every St. Mark’s Eve, Clarke and her father go to church. But it isn’t the church they come for; it’s the stone wall, and its premium location. The church itself is little more than a chapel, anyhow, filled with nothing but a single column of pews and all the skeletons of the dead Primes. Her father hops up on the church wall, and Clarke sits beside him. They are here to count the dead; her father is here to see them and ask their names, and Clarke is here to write them down. Clarke, though she has no psychic ability of her own, acts like a battery for other psychics, a source of extra energy. She makes things stronger.

Her father leans back, as they prepare for the dead to start appearing under the light of the moon. “Tonight,” he says. “Is a _night_ ,” like that means absolutely anything at all.

“Sure, Dad,” Clarke agrees, congenial.

“Did you hear that the Greenmantle school has started accepting girls?” he asks. The private school just outside of town. It’s for politicians’ kids and oil barons’ children and the offspring of mistresses living off hush money.

“Yeah,” she says. “A year too late for me, though, isn’t it?”

“You could always transfer in,” says her father. “We could make it work, Clarke.” He is eager for it, and Clarke knows they could. Her mother works as a doctor, and she knows her father would go back to work for her, although he makes his living primarily as a writer and a fortune teller now. But Clarke knows her parents get along because of this arrangement, not in spite of it; they are happiest how they are. Her mother works nights and is asleep during the day; Clarke’s house is a quiet place, but rarely a place of refuge.

“No thanks, Dad,” says Clarke. The Greenmantle school has caused Clarke to develop two very firm rules: One, stay away from boys, because they were trouble. And two, stay away from the Greenmantle boys, because they were bastards. Clarke doesn’t expect anything better from the Greenmantle women, either. Both genders can be bitches.

Her father looks like he wants to say something else, but then he holds up a hand and says, “I think they’re coming.”

“Are they —“ Clarke asks, and her father nods. She readies her pen and paper.

“Who are you?” her father says to empty air, and waits. “Roma Bragg.” Clarke writes it down. “What’s your name?Peter Colton. What’s your name? Rebecca Lee.” There is nothing among them that Clarke can see, but her father can. She sighs, and keeps writing. Until her father says “ _Excuse_ me. What is your name?”

Clarke looks up and follows her father’s gaze.

Against all reason, she sees someone.

Clarke’s heart hammers like a fist to her breastbone. On the other side of the heartbeat, he was still there. “I see him,” she hisses to her father. “Dad, I _see him._ ”

It is a young man in pants and a sweater, hair rumpled. His figure is indistinct, not quite transparent, but certainly not opaque, either. He is not identifiable, really, beyond anything other than a young man.

As Clarke watches, he pauses and puts his fingers to the side of his nose and his temple. Then he stumbles forward, as if jostled from behind.

“Get his name,” says her father. “He won’t answer me.”

Clarke feels stupid, but she slides off the wall, approaching him. “What’s your name?” she asks. He does not answer, but stumbles forward, closer to the church. Close to him, she is freezing. He has no energy to draw from but hers, and it saps the heat from her body. It feels a lot like dread. “Will you tell me your name?”

He faces her, finally, and he is nothing more than a suggestion of a boy from the neck up. On his sweater, however, she recognizes the rabbit that is the emblem of the Greenmantle school. He is a rabbit boy. “Bellamy,” he says. His voice does not sound like a whisper so much as it sounds like a voice from very far away.

His clothing is soaked from a storm that hasn’t happened yet; the early spring air is still crisp and cool. He looks so real. Looking at him is like looking into the grave and seeing it look back at her. “Is that all?” she asks, keeping her voice close to her chest.

Bellamy closes his eyes. “That’s all there is.” He falls to his knees, a surprisingly soundful gesture for a boy with no real body. One hand splayed in the dirt, fingers pressed to the ground.

“Dad,” Clarke says out loud, in a way that feels too loud. “Dad, he’s _dying_.”

Her father has come to stand just behind her. “Not yet.”

Bellamy is nearly gone now. “Why can I — how come I can see him?”

Her father glances over his shoulder, and by the time he looks back, Bellamy has vanished entirely. Clarke can feel the heat returning to her body, but the absence of cold seems to have opened a great vacuumn inside of her. She can feel soundless tears appearing on her cheeks.

“There are only two reasons a non-seer would see a spirit on St. Mark’s Eve, Clarke. Either you’re his true love,” says her father, and even he sounds a little breathless. “Or you killed him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a comment or a kudos, if you so desire. I'm writing fics with bellarkefic-for-blm (see their Tumblr page), and if you want something written by me, request a fic written by Redstorms. <3


	2. the Rover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a quick update because I want to introduce the boys because it's all about them until Clarke reappears at the midway point

“It’s me,” says Bellamy into his phone. He and the Rover are stopped on the side of the highway. The Rover’s hood is up; more as a symbol of defeat than for any practical use. Raven, friend of machines everywhere, might have been able to determine what was wrong with it, but Bellamy couldn’t.

On the other end of the phone, his roommate John Murphy replies, “You missed World History. I thought you were dead in a ditch.”

“Did you get notes for me?” asks Bellamy.

“No,” says Murphy. “I thought you were dead in a ditch.”

Bellamy sighs, very slowly, out of his nose. “The Rover stopped. Come and get me.”

“Come _on_ , man,” Murphy complains down the line.

Bellamy is very aware, as he leans against the Rover’s driver’s side door that the occupants staring out the windows of sedans are not impressed upon to help him, but impressed instead with the novelty of this rabbit boy broken down by the side of the road, by the silly little inconvenience of a nonworking car.“It’s not like you’re going to class,” Bellamy complains right back. Then, finally. “Please.”

Murphy is silent for a long moment. Murphy is good at keeping silent; he knows it makes other people uncomfortable. Bellamy, through long exposure, has become immune. “Where are you?” he asks, finally.

“Next to the Sanctum sign on 13. Bring me a burger. And more gas.”

“ _Bellamy_ ,” Murphy says, a whine that manages to be acidic.

“Bring Raven, too,” he adds after a second.

Murphy hangs up.

Murphy’s sleek car pulls in behind the Rover not ten minutes later. When he escapes the car, Murphy was just opening his door. The passenger seat briefly contains Raven Reyes, the third knot of the foursome that makes up Bellamy’s closest friends. Raven is pressing Murphy’s phone tightly to her ear.

Murphy slams the car door (he’s the kind of person who slams everything) before heading over to Bellamy. He says: “My _fucking_ brother wants us to meet him at Josie’s tonight. With _Sasha._ ”

“Is that who’s on the phone?” Bellamy asks. “What’s _Sasha?_ ” He holds the digital recorder with its secret encoded onto it out to Murphy.

Murphy lifts a gas can from the trunk, making no more than a token effort to keep the greasy container from contact with his clothing. Like Bellamy, he wore the Greenmantle uniform, but, somehow, he managed to make it look as disrespectful as possible. His smile was not a smile so much as the sharp edge of knife had just appeared across his face in place of a mouth. “Wells’ latest,” he says, rude. “We’re meant to look pretty for her.”

Bellamy resents having to play nicely with Murphy’s older brother, a senior at Greenmantle, but freedom in Murphy’s family was a complicated tangle.

“He wants to do it tonight because he knows I have class,” says Murphy, taking the recorder from Bellamy, swapping it for the fuel can. Unsympathetic, he watches Bellamy wrestle with the fuel and the gas cap on the Rover.

“Ask me if I found something,” Bellamy says at last, unable to handle the suspense between them.

Murphy sighs. “Did you find anything?” he reluctantly parrots back.

“There’s something,” says Bellamy, overeager, desperate to share, with someone who will understand. “But I don’t know what it means. Listen.”

Murphy leans on the Rover, turning to stare out over the interstate and presses _play._ There is nothing, and Murphy looks pissed off until there’s Bellamy’s voice over the recorder.

“Bellamy,” says Bellamy’s voice on the recorder.

There is a long pause. It’s strange to hear his own voice on the recording, having no memory of saying the words.

“Is that all?” says an unfamiliar voice, female and soft, hard to make out.

Murphy’s eyes dart over to Bellamy, wary. Bellamy raises an eyebrow. _Wait._ Then, Bellamy’s voice on the recorder, again: “That’s all there is.”

Murphy doesn’t ask. He just keeps looking at Bellamy, which is the same thing.

“You know what was happening when I recorded that? Absolutely nothing. I didn’t _say_ anything, Murphy. All night long, I didn’t say anything. So what’s my voice doing on the recorder?”

“How did you know it was there?”

“I was listening to what I’d recorded while I was driving back. Nothing, nothing, nothing, and then: my voice. Then the Rover stopped.”

“Coincidence?” Murphy said. “I think not.”

It was meant to be sarcastic. Bellamy had said _I don’t believe in coincidences_ so often that he no longer needed to. “I want to know what you think,” says Bellamy, sincere.

“Holy grail, finally,” Murphy replies, too sarcastic to be any use at all. Turning, he looks to his own car — Bellamy doesn’t know enough about cars to know any more about it — to look at Raven, climbing out. “Hey. What went down with Wells?”

Raven offers the phone to Murphy, who shakes his head. He doesn’t _do_ phones. “He’s coming by at five tonight,” she says.

“Great,” says Bellamy. “You’ll be there, right?”

“Am I invited?” Raven could be peculiarly polite, mostly when she was pissed off. Raven never needed an invitation. She and Murphy must have fought. Unsurprising. If it had a social security number, Murphy had fought with it.

“Don’t be stupid,” Bellamy replies, and takes the grease-stained McDonald’s bag that Raven offers up. “Thanks.”

“Murphy got it,” Raven says, still angrily polite.

Bellamy looked to Murphy, who lounged against the Rover, absently biting one of the leather straps collected on his writsts. Bellamy says: “Tell me there’s no sauce on this burger.”

Dropping the strap from his teeth, Murphy scoffs. “Please.”

Raven ignores both of them, crouching behind the Rover, looking at its innards. Bellamy grins and ignores her, the warmth of discovery starting to course through him. “So, pop quiz, Ms. Reyes. Three things that appear in the vicinity of ley lines?”

“Black dogs,” Raven says, indulging him. “Demonic presences.”

“And ghosts,” says Bellamy. “Murphy, queue up the evidence if you would.”

The three of them stood there in the late morning sun as Raven screwed the fuel-tank lid back on and Murphy rewound the player. Miles away, over the mountains, a red-tailed hawk screamed thinly. Murphy pressed _Play_ again and they listened to Bellamy say his name into the thin air. Raven frowns, distantly.

It could have been any one of the mornings in the last year and a half. Raven and Murphy would make up by the end of the day, his teachers would forgive him for missing class, and then he and Raven and Murphy and Finn would go out for pizza, four against Wells.

Raven says, “Try the car, Bellamy.”

It starts on the first try. Radio and all. “You’ve got a touch, Reyes,” he says, proud and pleased with her.

“We’ll follow you back to school,” says Raven, unimpressed with the praise. “It’ll get you back, but it’s not done yet. There’s still something wrong with it.”

“Cool,” Bellamy says, loudly, to be heard over the engine. Murphy has already retreated to his own car. “So, suggestions?”

Reaching into her pocket, Raven retrieves a piece of paper and offers it to him.

“What’s this?” Raven’s handwriting is …. Erratic. “A number for a psychic?”

“If you didn’t find anything last night, this was going to be next. Now you have something to ask them about.”

Bellamy considered. “Okay,” he agrees. “So what am I asking them?”

Raven hands him back the digital recorder. She knocks the top of the Rover once, twice, pensive. “That seems obvious,” she answers. “We find out who you were talking to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it is really starting to get interesting now! please leave me a kudos or a comment if your heart desires. I would really appreciate it. I'm writing fics with bellarkefic-for-blm (see their Tumblr page), and if you want something written by me, request a fic written by Redstorms. <3


	3. 1316 Greenmantle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to W for his help on this chapter!!!

Raven was very good at watching things without being watched. Only Bellamy ever seemed to catch her at it.

Raven had knocked already, but she knocked again - one short, two long, her signal. “It will be messy,” she apologizes, a reflex.There was still no answer.

Wells should have a key, as the official owner of this building, but he shifts from foot to foot instead, glancing at Sasha. “Should I call?” he asks.

Raven tries the knob, which was locked, and then jimmies it with her knee, lifting the door on its hinges a bit. It swings open. Sasha makes a noise of approval, but the success of the break-in has more to do with the door’s failing than Raven’s strength.

1316 Greenmantle, one of the oldest buildings owned by the school, and thus, the Greenmantle brothers, is technically a dorm room, made for rich boys (and now girls). Functionally, it is an apartment, three bedrooms — Murphy’s, Bellamy’s, and Finn’s, with a kitchen they never cook in and a bathroom that is always filthy. Two of the walls are made of windows, and the living room is not so much a living room as it is a swathe of space, spread out before them. Officially, this building belongs to the Greenmantle brothers, on paper. In reality, it is an apartment made in Bellamy’s image.

Two walls are covered in maps, the mountains of Colorado, of Wales, of Europe. Pushpins and strings are collected on top of them, looking like the walls of tourist destinations: _where are you from? How far did you come?_ A telescope perches in one of the windows, looking out at the sky; at its feet lies a pile of electronics, meant for measuring magnetic activity.

And everywhere, everywhere, there were books. Not the tidy stacks of an intellectual intending to impress, but the piles and piles of a scholar obsessed. Raven feels the familiar pang in her gut; not jealousy, so much, but just _wanting._ She wants a place that looks on the outside like Bellamy looks on the inside.

Bellamy himself sits at an old desk with his back to them.

“Bell,” Raven says into the stretch of space between them.

Bellamy does not reply. Raven sighs, and leads the way to the desk. In the middle of the room, where Wells probably has traditional living room furniture for living, Bellamy has build a knee-tall replica of Sanctum; Wells has to step over the tall spire of the chapel to follow Raven through.

Raven stops just beisde Bellamy. She raps, three times, on the desk. Bellamy startles, and takes out his earbuds. Seeing Raven, he blinks, realizing what’s going on, rises easily, and turns to face Sasha and Wells. “Hello!” he says, falsely bright.

As always, there was an all-American look about him, coded in his curly brown hair, just long enough to be handsome, the spray of freckles across his brown skin, the straight nose that ancient Anglo-Saxons had so graciously passed down to him.

Sasha stares.

“I didn’t hear you knock,” says Bellamy, unnecessarily. He knocks fists with Raven. The gesture is at once charming and self-conscious, a borrowed phrase. Raven’s knuckles barely feel the blow.

“Sasha, this is Bellamy,” Wells says, in his pleasant, neutral voice. “Bellamy Blake.”

Bellamy gives his most genial smile. “Just Bellamy is fine,” he says.

“This is so cool,” Sasha says, about the apartment, about the school, Raven isn’t sure. Her eyes lock with Raven’s, suddenly, and Raven is aware that she is a novelty among all these boys, that Sasha might be trying to find some solidarity with her. She tries to relax in her uniform, against Bellamy’s desk, make it look like she actually belongs here. Sometimes she feels like she’s been Photoshopped into conversations, like everything else is real here except herself. But Sasha doesn’t say anything more to her.

“Sash, you won’t believe why Bellamy is here, of all places,” Wells said, teasing out the conversation.

Bellamy can never resist talking about this. It’s one of the things that exasperates Raven, and simultaneously, endears her. “How much do you know about Arthurian mythology?” he asks.

Sasha frowns at him, thoughtful, not reproachful. “Um,” she says. “A special boy finds a sword from a beautiful lake lady, and he becomes the king?”

“Kind of,” says Bellamy, obviously hiding his disappointment. Raven knows that he likes to expect more from people, but he doesn’t mind retelling this story. Of brave King Arthur who started the Round Table, where all his knights were on the same page. And of course, it always comes down to one knight in particular: Gwalchemei. Bellamy uses his Welsh name, Raven knows, but in some stories he is called Gawain, son of Morgause and King Lot of Orkney, half-brother to the traitor Mordred, also called Medraut. When Bellamy speaks, sometimes Raven can see the Welsh foothills, the unforgiving northern mountains, different still from the Colorado mountains she has grown up around. Sometimes she can imagine the Round Table. Listening to Bellamy, it’s clear that Gwalchemei is more than just a historical figure; he is always wise and brave in Bellamy’s stories, sure of his path, touched by the supernatural, respected by all, survived by his legacy. Everything Bellamy wishes he could be.When Bellamy finishes his tale, he gives his attention back to Sasha, not on his tale: “Have you heard of the legends of the sleeping knights? That the knights of the Round Table aren’t really dead, but are sleeping in tombs, waking to be woken up?”

“Sounds like a metaphor,” says Sasha, cautious.

“Maybe so,” says Bellamy, grandly, forgivingly. He gestures to the maps on the wall. “But I think that their bodies were brought here, to Colorado. I want to find out where they’re buried.”

To Raven’s great relief, Bellamy leaves out the part where he believes that the knights are still alive, centures later; that they are held under an enchanted sleep, that they will grant a favor each to whoever wakes them. He leaves out the parts about how it haunts him, his need to find the long-lost knights. He leaves out the midnight phone calls to Raven when he couldn’t sleep for obsessing about his search. He leaves out the microfiche and the museums, the newspaper features and the metal detectors. He leaves out all the parts about magic and the ley line. And he leaves out his sister.

“That’s crazy,” Sasha says. Her eyes focus in on the maps. “Why do you think they’re here?”

Sasha gets the easy version; the historical version. Bellamy explains a bit about Welsh place names in the area, fifteenth-century artifacts found buried in Colorado soil, and so on and so forth.

Midway through the lecture, Finn -- 1136 Greenmantle’s reclusive third resident — emerged from the meticulous room directly next to the office Murphy had claimed at his bedroom. Finn, stepping father into the room, smiled smoothly at Sasha; he was good with new people, sometimes even better than Bellamy at charming them.

“That’s Finn,” Wells says. He says it in a way that confirms Raven’s assumption; this stop at the official Greenmantle dorm and the boys who live in it is just a stop for Wells and Sasha, a conversation piece for a later dinner, a tourist trap centered around the Greenmantle legacy.

Finn extends his hand.

“Oh! Your hand is _cold._ ” Sashs cups her fingers against her shirt to warm them.

“I’ve been dead for seven years,” Finn says. “That’s as warm as they get.” But he says it with a smile, so you know it’s a joke.

Finn, unlike his room, was always a little unkempt. He’s always been nice to Raven; he makes her feel a little less like she sticks out wrong. She feels like maybe they were friends in a different time; Finn always makes her feel like she’s been unstuck from time and placed back incorrectly, but maybe also like he was from the same time.

Sasha’s obliging giggle is cut off as Murphy’s bedroom door opens.

“Murphy,” says Wells, flat. “I thought you were out.” On the phone with Raven earlier, he had asked: _When will Murphy_ not _be available?_

 _“_ I was,” says Murphy, acidic.

Wells and Murphy Greenmantle were undeniably brothers; they have the same mannerisms, sometimes, the too-rich way of looking at the world, spiky in different ways. But Wells is brown where Murphy is pale from not enough sun; they were both adopted by Colin Greenmantle when they were younger, although Raven isn’t sure how much younger. Wells has never been a stranger to money, but Raven thinks Murphy might be newer to it. They both loved their father, but they had been at odds for as long as Raven had known them. There were four Greenmantle brothers; they other two, Jasper and Monty, were tucked away in a middle school somewhere else, not old enough to be rabbit boys just yet.

Unlike most of the world, Bellamy preferred Murphy to his elder brother Wells, and so the lines had been drawn. Raven suspected Bellamy’s preference was because Murphy was earnest even if he was horrible, and with Bellamy, honesty was golden Wells waited a second too long to speak, and Murphy crosses his arms over his chest. “You’ve got quite the guy here, Sasha. You’ll have a great night with him and then some other girl can have a great night with him tomorrow.”

A fly buzzed against a windowpane somewhere else in the apartment. Behind Murphy, his door, covered with photocopies of his speeding tickets, drifts closed. Sasha’s mouth didn’t make an _O_ so much as a sideways _D._ An aftertthought; Bellamy punches Murphy in the arm.

“He’s sorry,” Bellamy says.

“We’ve going now,” says Wells, rough, sudden. “Murphy, I think you need to reconsider your —“ but again, he had no words to end the sentence. His brother had taken all the catchy ones. Wells snagged Sasha’s hand, jerking her attention away and toward the apartment door.

“Wells,” Bellamy starts.

“Don’t try to make this better,” Wells warns. As he pulls Sasha out into the tiny stairwell and down the stairs, Raven heard the beginnings of damage control: _He has problems, I told you, I tired to make sure he wouldn’t be here, he’s the one who found Dad, it messed him up._

The moment the apartment door was closed, Bellamy says, “Come on, Murphy.”

Murphy’s expression was still incendiary. His code of honor left no room for casual relationships. It wasn’t that he didn’t condone them; he couldn’t understand them.

“It’s not your problem,” says Bellamy, trying to be soothing. “Murphy. Look at me.”

One of Murphy’s eyebrows is raised, sharp as a razor. He looks poisonous.

Bellamy closes his journal. “That doesn’t work on me,” he says. “She has nothing to do with you and Wells.” He says _you and Wells_ like it is a physical object, something you could pick up and toss around.

Murphy looks a little sorry, but Raven knows better. Murphy isn’t sorry for his behavior; only that Bellamy caught him at it. What lives between the Greenmantle brothers is dark enough to disregard anyone else’s feelings on it.

Catching Raven’s gaze and then her raised eyebrow, he says, “Let’s go to Josie’s. We’ll get pizza and I can call that psychich and the whole goddamn world can sort itself out. Alright?”

Bellamy could have had any friends he wanted, any girl he wanted. But instead of power and money, he had sought out the three of them: three people, who should have, for three very different reasons, been friendless, alone, and brought them together.

“I’m not coming,” says Finn, almost instanttly, looking shifty.

“Finn, we won’t make you eat,” says Bellamy, easy with it. “Raven?”

Raven glances up, aware that she’s let herself get distracted. She had stopped thinking about Murphy’s bad behavior — commonplace — and moved onto Bellamy’s search for Gwalchemei, for the Round Table, and their reasons for searching them out. Bellamy longs for Gwalchemei specifically like Arthur had longed for the Grail, drawn by a desperate but nebulous need to be useful to the world. Raven, however, needed that favor.

“Reyes,” Bellamy repeats. “Come on.”

Raven makes a face. She feels that it will take more than pizza to improve Murphy’s character.

But Bellamy was already grabbing the car keys to the Rover and stepping around his miniature version of Sanctum. Even though Murphy is snarling and Finn is sighing and Raven is hesitating, he doesn’t turn to verify that they are coming. He knows they are. In three different ways, he has earned them all days or weeks or months before, and when it came to it, they would all follow him anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update! I'm taking prompts via bellarkefic-for-blm, if you'd like to prompt me for anything (or even if you'd like to see this or one of my other works updated faster!). I hope you enjoy it! Leave a comment if you'd like to delight me.


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